


Long Term Investment

by Zoeleo



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Origin Story, Past Rape/Non-con, Roman just generally being creepy, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-24
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2018-12-19 11:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11897103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoeleo/pseuds/Zoeleo
Summary: Jason's good at what he does. He's one of the best runners in the city - he doesn't dip into the merchandise, has a talent for dodging cops and talking his way out of tight places, never misses a drop. He's been so diligent in avoiding drawing bad attention to himself, he hasn't realized it may be just as dangerous to do too good of a job. Especially when the power dynamics of the Gotham underworld shift, throwing him directly into the path of Black Mask's rise.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fire_Goddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Goddess/gifts).



> A bit of a blending of origin stories from Arkham Knight: Origins and Pre-52 and Rebirth with Black Mask thrown in for good measure. I tell you what, it is a trip trying to write Black Mask. His speaking patterns and behavior in UTRH and Rebirth are just so different. Personally, UTRH Black Mask will always be my favorite – I love bull-headed grumpy foul-mouthed Roman, whilst Black Mask from Rebirth is very pontifical and loves his gold-star words. I’ve tried my best to join the two a bit here. 
> 
> Not 100% where this is going. Slated to just be a two-chapter short, but if you have any ideas or want to see it go further feel free to offer up those plot bunnies. 
> 
> Sorry it's been a while. Depression reared its ugly head and I had a hard time crawling out of that hole. Didn't write anything for weeks, so I'm a bit out of the habit - Special thanks to Fire_Goddess for the encouragement that helped me get this out :) This should probably have been edited more before posting, but I'm feeling reckless.

Fat Tony counts the cash out in front of Jason painfully slow, his greasy fingers stroking each individual bill. The message is clear: Fat Tony will know if a single one goes missing. Jason wants to roll his eyes, but he wants a black eye less. He’s familiar with the drill, knows that Fat Tony has already called Maroni with the exact amount he should be expecting. He’s not stupid. He’s seen what happens to the kids who think no one will notice if they pocket one measly twenty dollar note out of a wad of thousands. 

And the ones who try and make a break with the whole stash? No one ever sees them again. There’s a rumor of a runner who managed to hightail it out of Gotham with fifteen grand – hopped a freight train south, changed his name, got clean, settled down, wife, white picket fence, 2.5 kids, and everything. Jason’s heard that same rumor circulating since before he knew what a grand was. Sometimes the guy’s name is Billy, sometimes it’s Clyde. Sometimes he’s one of Falcone’s men, sometimes he’s one of the Cosa Nostra. Every version is a lie, a pipe dream.

Fat Tony slides the cash into a manila envelope and makes a big deal of sealing it. His fingers brush Jason's own when the man pushes the envelope into his grasp. Jason stumbles back a step, jerking his hands away. An oily writhing discomfort worms its way up his stomach into his throat. He eyes the man distrustfully, but Fat Tony doesn’t make a grab for his wrist. Instead he huffs impatiently and raises his fist.

“Well? What are you waiting for you little shit? Get outta here!”

Jason ducks away before the swing connects with his temple. He runs up the stairs and out of the basement into the restaurant above. He passes through the kitchen and grabs a to-go box and take-out bag. The cook yells at him when he snags a couple breadsticks as well on the way out. He rolls those up in a napkin and shoves them in the pocket of his too-big hoodie. He places the cash in the Styrofoam box and drops it in the bag, knotting the handles at the top.

He exits the kitchen door into the alley and climbs up on the dumpster there. From here he can reach the first rung of the ladder to the fire escape that zigzags up the side of the building. There’s a white van with painted over windows parked diagonally across the street from the restaurant. Jason isn’t taking the chance of walking out of the alleyway straight into the arms of a narc, not with a take-out bag full of cash.

The rooftops are safer than the streets anyway. Clear not just of cops, but drunks, bullies, and other nasty fuckwads as well. He’s been using them to navigate the city for a while now. It’s way better than using the sewers. Up here the air smells almost clean. It isn’t completely free of the cloying smog that coats the nostrils and lungs of Gotham’s denizens like grease on a grimy stove top, but at least the sharp scent of urine and refuse don’t waft this far up.

Jason takes the rooftops as far as he can before they’re spaced too far to safely jump. The lock on the rooftop access door to this building is broken, so he takes the stairs down and exits casually out the front door. He walks down the street, bag in hand, looking for all the word like any other teenager picking up dinner on the way home from school. Except for the fact that he’s going in the wrong direction, leaving the residential streets behind and cutting his way to the warehouse district.

The sight of three flawlessly shiny black SUVs outside of Warehouse 7 isn’t quite enough to scare him off. It’s not unusual for Maroni to have extra men with him if there’s a deal going on that day. He doesn’t see Carlo or Tommy outside the loading dock smoking cigarettes though either, which is unusual if that were the case. He approaches the front door warily. He turns the doorknob as smooth and silently as possible, hoping to get a glimpse inside before committing to entering. He’d rather not waltz into the middle of a turf war on accident.

He doesn’t have the door cracked more than a quarter inch before someone is pulling it open and hauling him in by the collar of his sweatshirt. He yelps in surprise and balks at the man guarding the doorway, not because of the man’s looming height or thickly corded arms, but because of the black leather mask fitted over his head. This can’t be good. The guard frisks him. Jason flinches hard at first, trying to curve his body away from the groping touch, but settles when the man’s actions remain clinical and efficient.

The guard releases him and sends him deeper into the warehouse with an apathetic shove. Jason tugs his clothes back into place and shoots a glare at him over his shoulder. His footfalls echo loudly in the empty space. It hadn’t been empty last week, filled floor to ceiling with an assortment of crates. Now the crates are gone and Maroni is gone and in his place is Black Mask. Not another man in a black mask, but _the_ Black Mask. Jason’s heard stories about the man with increasing frequency in the past year or so. Ruthless. Savvy. Hot-tempered. The man in front of him, in his sharply cut black suit and patent leather headgear, embodies all of these things.

He’s sitting at an old steel desk, a monstrous relic from the 1960s when everything was made to withstand a nuclear blast, looking over a moleskin ledger. Two men with semi-automatics flank him and Jason catches sight of another three lurking in the corners of the warehouse. An Asian man dressed like an accountant lingers by the door of the loading dock, frowning at his phone. Jason isn’t the only kid there either. Six other skinny teenage boys are huddled in a loose group to his right.

He recognizes one of them, a towheaded teenager with acne bubbling up on his cheeks, and raises an inquiring eyebrow. All he gets from Kenny in return is a wide-eyed shrug. Jason shifts his weight from one foot to another. He tells himself there’s nothing to be afraid of; they’re just switching from one mob boss to another. Black Mask must have muscled Falcone out. How different can they really be? Better just to treat this like it’s just another collection day.

Black Mask finishes looking over the ledger. He makes some notations in a second pad, and then sets his pen down. He looks up at the motley bunch of nervous boys and clucks his tongue.

“Afternoon boys. I’m sure you’ve noticed things are changing around here. The families, the freaks that you used to work for? They lacked sincerity, equity, gravitas. They’ve used this city like a doormat, like the ring of a never-ending boxing match. Gotham and her children deserve so much more. You’ll be answering to me now, and in exchange for your loyalty and service I promise you my protection and care.”

Jason barely withholds a derisive snort. Pretty words, but ultimately meaningless. Just because Black Mask fed them a few stirring lines doesn’t mean he won't order their execution for stepping out of line just as quickly as Falcone would. But then Black Mask waves the accountant over.

“Mr. Li, if you would?”

Mr. Li pockets his phone immediately and takes the bundle of cash from the nearest boy. He flips bills through his fingers at a fantastic speed and recites the amount to Black Mask. It takes Mr. Li far less time to collect and count the money than Maroni ever did. 

“And Mr. Li, please see to it that our valuable assets are rewarded duly for their work,” Black Mask adds offhandedly. “Once you’ve received your payment from Mr. Li, you’re free to go.”

There’s a collective gasp when Mr. Li presses a bill into the boy’s hand. It’s not a few rumpled singles, or a fiver, or even a ten – but a clean crisp twenty. Jason’s jaw drops. It’s not enough for a room, but a jar of off-brand peanut butter at the corner market only sells for $4 add some cans of tuna to that and he can stretch it into meals for days. Fuck, with that and the breadsticks in his pocket he could eat for almost a week and still have extra to treat for a carton of cigarettes. Immediately the boys file into an eager cue. He winds up last in line, mouth watering with every step forward. When it’s finally his turn, Mr. Li peers over his glasses in amusement as Jason digs the cash out of the take-out bag. He holds out his hand for his wage when—

“Hey, kid.”

His concentration entirely on the money, it takes a second for Jason to realize he’s the one being addressed. His head whips up in confusion.

“Yeah you. You’re Todd’s boy, aren’t you? Willis Todd?” Black Mask asks. 

Jason swallows. It hurts, like that one time he’d almost choked on a jawbreaker. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He nods.

“Hang back for a moment. I’d like to have a word.”

Jason opens his mouth. He gives the twenty dollars in Mr. Li’s hand a final desperate glance and leaves the line to stand in front of Black Mask’s desk. It causes him actual physical pain to move away. He pushes it to the back of his mind though, because this – getting singled out by Black Mask – is much _much_ worse. Kenny gives him a sympathetic frown as he exits with the others, leaving Jason behind. Alone in a room of _very_ dangerous men.

He thinks hard, trying to figure out what he’s done wrong. What could he have possibly said or done to bring attention to himself? Was Jason’s tribute short? That was impossible, Fat Tony had made him watch him count it out. Unless Fat Tony had called in the wrong amount on purpose. Shit, shit, shit. The man had threatened to kill him more than once, but that’s just what mob flunkies did. Had he crossed a line without even realizing and Fat Tony had seized the opportunity to get rid of him without having to get his own hands dirty? Did Fat Tony even know Black Mask had taken over?

“What’s your name kid?”

“Ja—Jason,” his lips stumble over his own name, sounding unsure. 

“Jason, I heard about your parents. I wanted to extend my condolences.”

“My parents?” Jason asks dumbly, “Condolences?”

“What Maroni did, executing them both like that—leaving a child without any provision. It was unnecessary.” The crime lord straightens his tie then turns his attention to his cuff links.

“Oh.”

Black Mask seems unperturbed by his lack of reaction, instead he gestures at Li again. “Anyway, I know just how hard it can be as a young man trying to make his way in the world on his own.”

Mr. Li tucks away the twenty-dollar bill he’d been about to hand Jason, and offers him a fifty in its place. Jason’s fingers shake as he takes the note. He turns it over in his hands, admiring the iridescent ink stamps and feeling the miniscule ridges on the imprinted cotton fiber. 

“Thanks, but uh… I’m fine. Willis and Cathy were shitty people, and even worse parents. Honestly, I’m better off without them,” he says, but he still folds the bill into a small square and shoves it into his jeans pocket. 

“Ha!” Black Mask straightens slightly, rolling back his shoulders and drumming his fingers on the desk, “What a mouth on you, kid! I like that. You tell it like it is. You’re right. Willis was a meth-head idiot. Still it must sting the pride to work for the guy who put a bullet through his skull. Or maybe not? I heard he tried to sell his kid, I assume that would be you, to Maroni once. Tell me, is that true?”

A muscle in Jason’s jaw spasms. He jerks his head in acknowledgment. Willis had never let him forget it. Used to tell him all the time, he was such a loser they couldn’t even give him away. Worthless. Useless. A parasite, wasting away Willis and Cathy’s already non-existent resources.

“Maroni should’ve taken him up on it, but then Maroni never was good at spotting long-term investment opportunities.” Black Mask leans back until his chair creaks and kicks his feet up to rest on the desk. He steeples his fingers and tilts his head, considering. “How old are you Jason?”

“Be fourteen in a couple months,” he grits out.

“You ever think about doing other work? Other than running for pissheads like Fat Tony?”

When he was six he wanted to be a superhero, like Batman and Robin. Saying that out loud got him slapped so hard his lip split. _You want to be some pedo with a little dick and a furry fetish? Don’t you ever say bullshit like that again. Can’t goddamn believe you’re my son._ When he was seven he wanted to work at McDonalds, so he could eat all the burgers he wanted. _What, is the food your mom makes not good enough for you, you ungrateful little shit!_ When he was eight he wanted to be an astronaut. _God, kid. You have to be smart to be an astronaut. Got to go college and stuff. Retards like you don’t become astronauts._

He stopped thinking about it much after that. Most jobs require at least a high school diploma or a GED and he’d dropped out two years ago. Maybe once he turned fifteen he could pick up some legit work at a sandwich shop or a gas station or something… somewhere minimum wage where they wouldn’t care too much about the blank spaces on an application where he was supposed to fill in his phone number and home address or have an ID or… Who is he kidding?

Jason shakes his head and lets it hang shamefully. There’s a grating screech as Black Mask’s chair scoots across the cement floor of the warehouse. In a few strides he rounds the desk and seizes Jason’s chin, tilting it up so he can get a good look at his face. He turns it one way, then the other. His thumb pulls at Jason’s top lip, exposing his teeth and then at his bottom lip to do the same and stays there. Jason trembles, skin crawling at the way the calloused pad of flesh catches on his lips.

“You’re growing up real nice kid. Good teeth. Big blue peepers. Little skinny but that can be fixed easy. I think I know something you could do. Easier than running, pays better too. Mr. Li will give you my card. I’ll have someone pick you up Friday, 7:30. We’ll discuss it over dinner at my club.”

It doesn’t slip Jason’s notice that it’s not phrased a request.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Tags, but they're probably not in the way you typically think for Self-Harm... I don't know if that makes it any better. No Roman in this chapter, but he'll be in the next one. I'm leaning more in the UTRH direction here w/Black Mask's base of operations being _not_ in an underground lair. Still not 100% sure how I feel about this. I really like the idea in my head, but I'm not as happy with how it translates onto the page as much as my other stuff at the moment.

Jason turns the fifty-dollar bill over in his hands. He’s sitting on the fire escape that scales the outside of the building Fat Tony’s family’s restaurant is in, feet dangling over the beaten old dumpster. Fifty dollars. It’s more cash than he’s ever had to his name, and he hasn’t been able to bring himself to spend it yet. He ate the bread sticks for lunch and dinner yesterday instead of breaking it; an empty beer bottle fills their place in his pocket now. Fifty dollars. He could do a lot with fifty dollars. 

He could get a new jacket and shoes at the Goodwill on Broad for $15. A carton of Marlboros from the gas station on 8th Street for $5. New socks and underwear from Family Dollar. Splurge a couple dollars on chili-dogs from the cart on Porter Street. Stock up on peanut butter and canned tuna and protein bars from Snead’s Corner Market, and still have one or two left to hunt through the $1 book bin outside the bookshop on Commerce Avenue. 

Or he could buy a bus ticket and get as far the fuck away from Gotham as he can. It’s seven o’clock. He still has time to disappear.

And then what? 

He’ll still be broke and homeless, just in another city. 

Jason snarls in frustration and scrubs a hand over his face. He winces when his palm glances over his swollen nose. He’d provoked Fat Tony into hitting him earlier. The blood on his top lip was already crusting over. He’d been hoping the gangster would break his nose, but it was just a throbbing swollen mess. He’ll have to do it proper himself before Black Mask’s car arrives. 

He’d spent all yesterday coming up with the plan. It is a terrible plan. It relies too much on assumptions, on his analysis of a man he’d only talked to for ten minutes, with too many variables outside of his control that could fuck him over at any moment. Maybe he should just accept his fate and take the deal Black Mask is going to offer him. 

Jason’s not some naïve runaway from the Diamond District slumming it for a few weeks to scare their parents and impress their friends. He knows exactly what Black Mask wants from him. It’s not even the first time he’s considered it. What street rat hasn’t at some point?

The girls on the corner, Carla and Tandi and Jess, they make enough for rent and groceries. A shitty shared apartment and bread from the past-date outlet maybe, but still— _shelter, food_. A few bruises in exchange for never having to dig through trashcans or fight over a dry space to sleep again was nothing. He could take a hit. It’s not the pain that’s—

Who is he fooling? Of course he’s scared of the pain. He’s had broken bones, stitches, sprains, but nothing could have prepared him for _that_. Old nausea slams into him, leaving him curled over himself, fingers clawing at the brick behind him. The rough scrape keeps him in the here and now. It keeps him from sliding back to that night, when his fingers did nothing but slip helplessly on kitchen tile. When Fat Tony was still just Tony and Willis was in prison on possession charges and Cathy was too high to be any fun to fuck for what she owed.

That’s the memory he can’t get past. Not even for the promise of a warm bed and a full stomach. He knows it’s not supposed to hurt that much. He knows what happened isn’t the same as what the girls get paid for, that most clients wouldn’t be like that. But all it takes is one bad turn to end up as a bloated corpse washing up in Gotham Bay. He can’t put himself in that position again. Ever. 

God, he’s sweating and shaking just thinking about it.

He can’t leave. He can’t stay and bend over for Black Mask. But he can’t actively defy the man either. A _long term investment,_ that’s what the crime lord had said. Investment. Profit. Value. There’s a fifty-dollar bill in his pocket and a gnawing hunger in his stomach screaming at him that it’s imperative to stay useful to a man like Black Mask. He just needs to shift where his perceived value lies. It’s better to be smart than pretty anyway.

It must be getting close to time by now. Jason glances at the mouth of the alleyway. He climbs down the ladder and drops the last few feet. The heel of his left foot lands in a puddle. He winces at the cold that seeps through his shoe into his sock. Jason walks to the edge of the alley, close to the entrance but not quite in the glow of the streetlamp on the sidewalk. He turns to face the side of the building. He plants his feet, toes inches away from the wall. Jason takes a deep breath, and then another, and one more. He braces his hands and slams his face into the brick.

He falls back on his ass, disoriented from the pain. Warmth gushes over his lips and down his chin. His breaths bubble wetly. The crunch in his ears tells him he’s succeeded where Fat Tony failed. It’s not enough though. Too temporary. Once the swelling goes down it won’t be ugly enough. Broken noses heal with only a crook or bump in their wake. He needs something more. He staggers back to his feet and sways, puts his shoulder to wall to stay upright.

Jason pulls the bottle out of his pocket. He’d picked it from the trash earlier and done his best to wash it clean in the bus station bathroom. He’s not trying to save himself from one end only to die of an infection. He swings the bottle at the brick and watches the end shatter, leaving only the jagged neck intact. His breathing picks up, coming out in short shallow pants. He has to close his eyes as he brings the glass to his face, afraid he won’t be able to go through with it otherwise. Jason sets his jaw into a sneer and buries the glass in the meat of his cheek. He drags it down, screaming as the skin splits under his own hand.

His knees give out. The ambient noise of the city fills his head; static laced infomercials from old TV sets floating through open windows, a couple arguing, car tires splashing through oil-slicked puddles, distant sirens, the whirr of a helicopter making it’s way to the Gotham Mercy Helipad. He doesn’t pass out. Or at least he doesn’t think he does, but the world around him loses its hold. His senses don’t fade so much as he loses the ability to interpret them. 

 

 

A rough grip takes hold of his shoulder.

“Ah shit, I think this is him,” a similarly rough voice grates out above him.

“Who?” asks a second.

“The kid we’re supposed to pick up.” 

He’s jostled lightly. 

“Hey, hey kid. You okay?”

“He ain’t dead is he?”

“No,” the first man snorts, “He ain’t dead. His eyes are open aren’t they?”

“That doesn’t mean a thing. Don’t you remember Kurdy? His eyes stayed open the whole time. Puck made a whole big fuss over it, I had to close them just to shut him up.”

“He ain’t dead,” the man insists. “It’s just a lot of blood. I don’t think he’s even hurt much aside from his face. I think maybe he’s in shock.”

Hands push up at his shirt to check for other injuries. The brush of gloved fingers over his stomach startles Jason into the present. He jerks to the side, falling over awkwardly in his haste. He blinks up at two men hovering awkwardly over him. Both are wearing suits, though they are significantly less well-cut than Black Mask’s, and the distinctive leather hood of their employer. The one crouched directly in front of him is broader than his partner pacing in the background and has a brown leather jacket tossed carelessly over his suit ensemble.

“Oh good. See I told you he wasn’t dead.”

His comment is met with an unenthusiastic, “ _Great_.”

It’s a little difficult to tell who is speaking without being able to see their mouths move, but the small twitches of hands and heads that accompany their speech make it possible. 

The larger one’s head tics to the side as he asks, “Your name Jason, kid?”

Jason blinks again and pushes himself up into a sitting position. He nods. Tacky blood pulls at his skin, while the movement sends a fresh wave slicking down his chin.

“Alright, good. Black Mask sent us to pick you up. We’re your ride. You okay? Hurt anywhere other than your face?”

Jason starts to shake his head and immediately aborts the attempt. “No, no,” he says instead, “I’m fine. ‘m okay.”

God, it hurts to talk.

“Fine might be pushing it. Do you think you can stand or am I gonna have to carry you?”

“I—I think I can stand.”

It takes some effort, but Jason manages. Once he’s up, a steadying hand grabs his elbow. 

The man looks over his shoulder, “Hey Reggie, put a tarp or something down in the back seat and call the boss. Let him know we’re making a pit stop back at HQ first to get the kid patched up.”

‘Reggie’ stares hard at Jason’s support and sighs, “You’re fucking soft, Box.”

“You think he’d rather us get blood all over the leather and drop the kid off looking like he’s fresh from Carrie’s prom?” Box fires back.

Reggie grumbles something and ambles out of the alley, where a black Lincoln waits. Box herds Jason towards the car and buckles him into the backseat after bundling him up in a towel. Jason pretends not to see the shovels, fuel cans, and guns that fill the trunk as well. It crinkles when he sits on the tarp spread out so he won’t make a mess on the seats. A minute later the doors slam shut behind Box and Reggie and they’re moving. 

Nowhere to go but forward now, all he can do is commit to his course. At least so far things are going well. Heck, better than expected. He didn’t get found by thugs and mugged before Black Mask’s men showed up. He’s still got the fifty-dollars safe in his jeans pocket. When Black Mask’s men did show up, they didn’t leave him there hurt and helpless in the trash pile or rough him up any extra. And curled up under a towel in the backseat of their car is the warmest he’s been in days. He thinks this car might even have heated seats. _Rich people_. 

He doesn’t lean his head against the window glass (he doesn’t want to get it dirty), but he inches close enough to look out at the city as it flashes by. The buildings grow taller, the streets more well lit. At some point Reggie and Box both ditch their masks before pulling into the parking garage of an attractive high-rise building. From his vantage point though, Jason can’t make out their features. They descend in a slow spiral to the bottom level of the garage and Reggie pulls them up close to a service elevator. 

Box opens the door to the back seat and prods Jason out. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting of the parking garage, Box’s face is an amalgam of shadowed crags and highlighted ridges. He looks like an old fighter; face beaten in so many times it’s impossible to recall its original bone structure. Jason walks under his own power, feeling surer after his rest in the car, but Box keeps one large hand on his back to direct him. His hand is so big it spans both of Jason’s shoulder blades.

Jason tries to keep track of the turns they make once they get off the elevator but his head is pounding and it takes most of his concentration just to put one foot in front of the other. The slap of the soles falling off the bottoms of his shoes is muted by thick burgundy carpet. For being the base of operations of a man who goes by the intimidating moniker of Black Mask, the décor is surprisingly hospitable. Warm ochre walls and rich wooden paneling. Large antique maps hang on the walls, the centuries old borders of obsolete countries fading behind glass. 

At last Box directs him into a room. It vaguely reminds him of glimpses he’d gotten of the teachers lounge at his elementary school (with the addition of a minibar). There are a couple couches and chairs grouped around a TV. Five men with their masks laying over their knees are leaned forward watching a ball game. They turn to look when Jason and Box come in. Box lifts his free hand and chin in silent greeting. A couple raise their eyebrows at Jason’s bloody state, but no one says anything and they turn their attention back to the game. 

Jason’s pushed through a door at the far side of the room. The cabinets and sink at first lead him to believe it’s some kind of kitchen space, but then he sees the gurney and IV stand. It’s a clinic. A man who doesn’t look like any doctor Jason’s ever seen before is rifling through the cabinets – big and blonde with a buzzcut and full tattoo sleeves visible up both arms under his black t-shirt. Box picks Jason up and sets him on the gurney. Jason wants to growl at him for the manhandling but his head spins and he comes dangerously close to falling back off the edge. 

Box pats him on the chest. Jason doesn’t know if it’s in encouragement or to keep him upright, but he’s thankful nonetheless.

“This here is Holiday. Used to be a field medic, he’ll get you all good ‘n cleaned up. I gotta go make a call.”

Then Box is gone, leaving Jason alone with the tattooed medic. Holiday turns around arms full of supplies and lays them out neatly on the counter. 

His face is blank and his voice dispassionate when he tells Jason, “This is going to sting,” and starts wiping the blood off his face to see the damage below. 

Jason can’t help but hiss and flinch when the first layer of blood is removed and the antiseptic hits the open wound. Holiday grips his chin and continues with his ministrations. Jason misses Dr. Thompkins gentle touch and wishes he was at her clinic instead. He’d happily suffer through her tiresome nagging over Holiday’s cold demeanor any day. Holiday pokes carefully at his cheek, prompting another wince from Jason, and whistles. 

“That’s a deep cut, kid. Definitely need stitches. What did they get you with?”

Jason barely manages to bite down on his urge to snap, _‘don’t call me kid._ ’ It’s bad enough he’s been letting Box call him that all night, but Box had given him a towel and treated him with more kindness than Jason’s received in months, so he gets a free pass. Holiday doesn’t. 

“Glass bottle,” Jason grits out.

Holiday nods and is already moving on. Jason is expecting him to pick up needle and sutures but Holiday’s hands are on his face and Jason howls and flails back when his nose is set back into place with a crunch. 

“ _Shit. Fuck. Motherfucking. Fuck. Oh my god,_ ” Jason recites raggedly.

Everything hurts. Talking hurts, breathing hurts, crying hurts. Crying? Shit, he can’t be crying right now, not in the middle of Black Mask’s base with a bunch of hardened criminals sitting on the other side of the drywall. He sniffs and lifts his wrist to wipe away the tears. Holiday knocks his hand away.

“Don’t touch your face,” he commands.

He doesn’t give Jason any anesthetic. Jason has to sit on his hands to resist the temptation to push the doctor away with every push, pierce, and pull through his skin. By the time it’s over, shivers are running down his arms and spine. Holiday ducks out of the room and reappears a second later with a soda. He pushes the can of Coke into Jason’s hands.

“Your blood sugar dropped. Drink this, it will help with the shakes,” he watches Jason with an imperious eye until Jason takes a small sip before continuing, “The stitches will dissolve on their own, you won’t need to take them out. But you do need to keep the cut clean, trust me you don’t want a face wound getting infected. Take this, apply twice a day.”

Holiday hands him a small tube of antibiotic ointment. Jason immediately pockets it.

“Will it… Will it scar?” he rasps.

“Yes. The cut was too deep. Went past the epidermis into the muscle underneath. It’s going to scar.”

Jason’s shoulders sag in relief. Holiday must misread it as disappointment. The medic’s lip turns down at one corner and his monotone voice betrays the first hint of sympathy since Jason walked in.

“Sorry, kid. You’re not going to be winning any beauty pageants after this. Better get used to having that ugly mug.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language warning for this one. And sorry it's so so so so late. At least I finished it, right? And sorry I haven't updated New Prometheus. Depression has been a bitch. Seeing a therapist now though, so hopefully that will help and things will get on the up-swing.

Jason stares at the plate in front of him. He’s pretty sure the gilding around the edges is real gold. Better than the plate itself is what’s on it. Steak. A big slab of marbled juicy steak. Like he’s seen in commercials on TV for the restaurants Willis and Cathy could never afford to go to. He’s never had steak before. His mouth fills with thin watery saliva and for a second he’s sure he’s going to throw up. His stomach is in knots, but he’s never been so hungry for something before.

There’s a low chuckle from the other end of the table. The scent and sizzle of food had effectively wiped all thoughts of current company out of his head once the lids came off the platters. Jason’s head snaps up. Black Mask is resting his chin on his intertwined fingers as he watches Jason. It’s disconcerting not being able to read the person sitting across from him. It’s almost as if one of Jason’s sense has been cut off. How can he tell if Black Mask is amused or angry when there’s no arching eyebrow or gritted jaw to decipher?

It leaves him thrumming in a constant state of _dangerdangerdanger!_

His attention bounces back and forth between the steak and Black Mask. Another gilt-edged plate sits in front of his host with another steak. Jason wonders how he’s going to eat it. Unlike his men, he hasn’t taken off his leather head covering, not even here in the privacy of his own penthouse. After getting stitched up, instead of taking him back to the car to meet Black Mask at his club, Box lead Jason to a private elevator that took him all the way to the top floor. Jason desperately hopes the switch isn’t an ill-omen, that he hasn’t pissed Black Mask off by inconveniencing him.

“What are you waiting for, kid? Dig in!” his host urges.

Well, at least he doesn’t sound upset, Jason tries to reassure himself. He picks up the steak knife to his right and saws off a corner of meat. It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Savory and perfectly seasoned, it’s heavenly on his tongue. Even better than the shredded pork his downstairs neighbor Mrs. Acosta used to make. It’s so good it’s worth the whimper of pain when he chews. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes. To his mortification, they don’t escape Black Mask’s observation. The man throws up a hand.

“Hold up, kid. My apologies. I’ve been thoughtless, no better than some of the knuckle-draggers I employ. Mr. Li,” he calls for his assistant, who has been standing innocuously in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows on their right, scrolling through his phone.

Mr. Li is at his side in an instant, phone pocketed. He moves with surprising speed.

“Mr. Li, could you please have Andre whip up something easier for Mr. Todd here to masticate? He’s having some difficulty with the Delmonico.”

Mr. Li sweeps past Jason with a nod, taking his plate as he goes. Jason makes a sound of protest, hands automatically flying up in an aborted attempt to keep the food. He flushes red in embarrassment when he catches himself. Without the food in front of him, Jason isn’t sure what to do. He looks down and winces when he sees his reflection in the glossy finish of the table. He turns his gaze out the windows to Gotham’s nightscape instead; a mosaic of thousands of tiny squares white, yellow, and red lights. It’s pretty up here, removed from the piss and grit and the struggle to survive going on below.

Black Mask clears his throat.

“It’s not my custom to talk shop while dining. Growing up, dinner was the most important meal in our home. We’d come together and talk about our day, business was saved for after.”

Jason doesn’t have much experience with family dinners, and he says so.

“Sounds nice, I spent most nights under the kitchen table with Sparky trying to get 911 on the cordless.”

He’d been aiming for sarcasm, but it comes out just sounding sad.

“Sparky?”

“My dog,” Jason explains.

“Ah. I always enjoyed visiting the kennels as a boy. My father bred Dobermans. Beautiful creatures when properly trained, a perfect combination of strength and loyalty. What happened to your ‘Sparky’?”

Jason shrugs.

“Dunno. Ran off. Hit by a car. Dad kicked her to death? Does it matter? She’s gone now,” he answers roughly.

He’d cried for days after she disappeared. It was so much harder pretending everything would be okay, hiding under the kitchen table while his parents screamed at each other, without her gentle weight in his lap. He missed curling his fingers into her fur and her wet nose snuffling his hands and neck. Black Mask tilts his head, like listening to Jason prattle on about his childhood pet is the most important thing he’s heard all day.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Every boy should have a dog. It teaches responsibility and leadership – the reciprocal arrangement between a master and his dependents.”

Jason’s not sure what to say to that. Making small talk with a crime boss of Black Mask’s caliber isn’t something he ever expected to be doing. He fiddles with his fork in silence.

“So other than dogs, what else do you like, Jason?”

Jason lifts his eyes from the fork warily. He feels like he’s already given too much away, talking about Sparky. What will Black Mask do with that information? Feed him to his dogs in a fit of irony? Kill a puppy in front of him as punishment? Jason imagines a black leather glove cruelly shaking a chubby-bellied pup from its scruff until it whines, and shudders. He tries to think of something innocuous, something Black Mask won’t be able to use against him.

“I like cars… And books,” he admits cautiously.

“Books? Really?” Black Mask leans forward, his hands steeple together in interest. “I didn’t think young men were much for reading these days.”

An unbidden blush warms Jason’s face, adding to the fever-heat of his torn cheek. The way Black Mask has switched from ‘kid’ to ‘young man’ and responded without ridicule to his admission, helps tear down some of Jason’s defenses.

“What types of books do you enjoy, Jason?”

“Adventure mostly, but… I like reading other things too. Not just fiction,” he adds quickly, not wanting to sound childish. “The library has a lot of science and nature magazines too. Biographies are cool sometimes as well. Depending who they’re on.”

Black Mask tilts back in his seat, affecting a deceptively lazy sprawl. His gloved fingers tap mutedly against the tabletop.

“You’re a very smart boy, aren’t you Jason?”

Jason ducks his head.

“I don’t know. I don’t know all the big words sometimes, when I’m reading. And I’m not very fast. So maybe not… But, I like learning new things.”

Black Mask shakes his head dismissively, “No. Don’t deprecate yourself. Only idiots are content with their own ignorance, but you—you’re smart. Knowledge is power, and an educated man is dangerous. But a self-educated man? He’s unstoppable.”

Black Mask looks like he’s going to continue, but Mr. Li returns bearing a covered tureen. When he removes the lid, a cloud of aromatic steam rolls over the edge; its call stronger than any Siren’s song. A spoon is in Jason’s hand before he consciously reaches for it. It hovers over the surface of the soup. He tears his engrossed eyes away from the chunks of meat and vegetables submerged in broth to the head of the table. Black Mask inclines his head and picks up his fork. The gesture is like the wave of a wand, setting Jason free from stasis.

Saliva fills his mouth once again and he has to swallow it down before taking a first taste. It’s glorious. He tries not to show his enthusiasm; not to slurp, not to let it run down his chin like he’s the starving piece of street trash he is. It’s difficult. Aside from the bite of steak from earlier, this simple soup is coming up on second for the best thing he’s ever eaten. Probably the safest too. It makes it easier to enjoy, knowing that the only way it could make him sick is if he eats it too fast. With that thought he slows down and takes time to breathe between mouthfuls. He rolls the contents over his tongue, identifying individual ingredients: potato, tomato, peas, lima beans, and some kind of meat. He’s not exactly sure what kind but it’s so tender it falls apart in his mouth, eliciting barely a grimace when he chews.

Despite his efforts to savor the dish, he finishes his before Black Mask is halfway done with his steak. Jason scoots a little further back into his chair, body sagging against the backrest. He blinks and shakes he head, trying to ward off the somnolence that comes with a full belly and a warm room. He can feel the blood rushing to his stomach to digest this rare full meal. It leaves his fingers and toes tingling, his eyelids heavy, and his head light. He pinches his thigh to rouse himself from the threatening lethargy. It’s not safe here, no matter how comfortable it is. He can’t afford to be anything less than vigilant.

He investigates the room they’re in. He’d been too occupied with Black Mask and then food when he originally came in to spare much attention on his surroundings. He’s still hesitant to take his eyes off the gangster in case the man makes a sudden move, but it’s weird watching him eat in silence. The décor is similar to the halls outside but with more black accents – black lacquered tables, a black leather sofa, and a black granite topped bar. His eyes linger on the sofa enviously. It looks butter-soft and inviting. He fidgets in his chair. The wooden seat is hard against one butt cheek and then the other when he shifts.

The quiet tink of metal brings him back to awareness. Black Mask taps the tines of his fork against the gold rim of his plate. The zipper across his mask is now open. Jason can see white teeth flash when he speaks.

“Would you like to relocate somewhere more comfortable?” Black Mask asks, canting his head subtly towards the lounge area.

Had he been that obvious? Jason bites his lip and shakes his head. He’s afraid if he sits down onto that couch he’ll sink straight past the leather and cushions into the alluring embrace of sleep. Then who knows how or where he’ll wake up? He’ll take the discomfort of a sore bottom if it keeps his wits about him.

“No, here’s fine. Thank you,” he tags the last two words on in a discordant mumble.  
He’s not used to polite etiquette, but he’d also like to survive the night. It can’t hurt.

“Alright, then.”

Black Mask takes a bite from the strip of steak he’s serrated into one-inch cubes.

“So Jason, how was your day?”

Jason startles. He hadn’t been prepared to launch his defense until after dinner, and Black Mask is still eating. He’s slow to answer, mentally rehearsing the story he prepared one final time.

“C’mon. In the spirit of that time-honored tradition of family dinner, it’s time to share how our day went. For example: today, I had a new suit fitted, met with the Gotham Fire Chief to discuss some renovations I’d like to make to one of my clubs, and made 6.5 million dollars brokering an exchange of… _goods_ with a group of businessmen from Beijing. Wasn’t that easy? Now it’s your turn. Looks like you had an exciting day as well.”

Jason’s hand rises idly to face. _He can do this._ He lets a tremble creep into his fingers and voice.

“I… Uh. I dunno. Went down to the bus station. And went into some of the shops. Was trying to figure out how I wanted to spend the money you gave me. Stopped by the library a bit to warm up. Then went to Fat Tony’s place. He’s my… He’s the corner boss. See if he had any errands for me. And, uh. He—he doesn’t really like me. I—I made him mad.”

“I can see that. Did you deserve it?” Black Mask asks bluntly, though Jason thinks he detects a hint of dry humor in the undertone.

“I guess. My fault I got hit, should’ve ducked faster,” Jason quips with a breathless laugh.

“What did you do to warrant him taking such offense to your face?”

Jason shakes his head.

“Nothing, I—I tried to warn him. I told him what happened at the warehouse. That Falcone was out. And that he should probably stop cutting his shit with fucking baking soda ‘cause I didn’t think he’d be able to get away with it any more. Not with you. He uh, didn’t take kindly to my suggestion. Thought I was telling him how to do his job.”

The aura of humor evaporates faster than water in a salt flat. Even without being able to read Black Mask’s face, the tightening of the gangster’s shoulders as he leans forward tells Jason he’s hooked his audience.

“That was a poor move on his part,” Black Mask says silkily, “You said he cuts his product? Tell me more about that.”

“He’s been doing it for years. He’s like a cousin of a cousin of Falcone’s, so Maroni let him get away with a lot. He cuts what he’s supposed to distribute so it stretches farther, then skims the profit from the extra sales.”

“Does he?” Black Mask muses.

“Yeah,” Jason continues, emboldened by Black Mask’s receptiveness, “He’s not careful about it either, likes to flash his dough around. Prick bought a fucking red Ferrari last year and drives up and down Crime Alley screwing hookers in it like he’s some big shot.”

“Some people don’t understand class. Men who don’t treat things of beauty with care, don’t deserve them.”

Jason doesn’t think Black Mask is talking about the car. He suppresses a shiver and forges ahead with a growl.

“Look, I’m not gonna pretend I got any love for the guy. He’s a grade-A douche. But he’s my corner boss. If he don’t turn a profit, I don’t get nothing. And if I don’t get nothing, then I don’t eat. And if he was just cutting and skimming a little, it wouldn’t be a big deal. But he’s too greedy and he’s fucked up a couple of times. One too many junkies ‘ve dropped dead because he screwed up the mix. So now people are getting scared of buying off him, and the cops have started sniffing around. Gonna get his ass offed that way. So I told him he’d better clean up his act if he wanted to get in good with you.” Jason pauses for dramatic effect. “Apparently he took that as a threat. Busted me in my nose and knocked me upside the head with a bottle ‘fore tossing my ass out with the trash,” he fades off quietly.

During the telling, Black Mask had seemed to hang onto his every word, but now in the protracted ensuing silence, Jason starts to doubt.

“Well, you’ve certainly got sand,” Black Mask comments drolly. He addresses his assistant, “Mr. Li, send McDonough and Alvarez back out to where they picked up our guest here. Tell them to ask for a ‘Fat Tony.’ Confiscate his books and test his goods. He should have a bruised set of knuckles. If any of those three is off, I want him brought here.” He turns back to Jason with a single word, “Dessert?”

Jason’s nose scrunches up in confusion for the second before he sees the offer for what it is – a treat. Like he’s a dog. It doesn’t stop it from being effective. Besides, Jason’s not in the habit of turning down more free food, whatever the context. A dark smug thing uncurls in his chest, like a black cat stretching now that it’s awoken from slumber. He allows himself a grin, ignoring the way it smarts his maimed cheek.

“Please.”

“My cook makes an excellent chocolate mousse. Mr. Li, please fetch some for Mr. Todd here.”

There’s almost no wait this time. A crystalline bowl filled with a fluffy brown swirl is set in front of him along with a new spoon. He should really stop being surprised by how good everything tastes, but his tastebuds that already died and went to heaven have just been resurrected. Jason draws out the dessert as long as he can, taking small spoonfuls and letting them melt on his tongue completely before swallowing. When all that's left is smears on the glass and Jason is contemplating licking the bowl clean, Black Mask clears his throat. He sets his fork down and pushes his plate to the side. His and Jason’s empty dishes are whisked away immediately and the non-verbal cue.

“Now, dinner is over, on to business, shall we?”

Jason freezes. They’d already discussed everything hadn’t they? It was obvious Jason wasn’t any good for street work anymore, marked up like he is, and he’d told Black Mask about Fat Tony to offset that loss. He was hoping this would be the point where Black Mask ordered Mr. Li to hand him another one of those crisp fifty-dollar bills and then he’d be free to go.

“I offered you a job, didn’t I?”

One time he’d been playing on the docks in the dead of February and he’d hit a patch of ice and slipped right off the pier into the frigid bay water. He’d almost died. It had felt something like this. No. No, no, _nononono_. He thought he’d—who would even want to—with him? Now?—No, _this can’t be happening_.

“Unfortunately the position I had in mind is no longer available,” Black Mask remarks blandly, apparently oblivious to Jason’s inner turmoil.

At those words, Jason can’t help the great gasping gulp of breath he takes, as he breaks the surface of the paralyzing panic he’d been drowning in. He should be more concerned with reigning in his reaction under Black Mask’s assessing intelligence, but he’s too relieved to care.

“I don’t think it’s the best fit for you after all,” Black Mask pontificates. “I’d like to offer you something else instead. Since I have no children of my own, I’m looking for a second in command – an heir apparent, if you will. You aren’t some gutless stooge or brain-dead mouth-breather type. I see potential in you. The potential to be great and do great things for this city. You know how sick Gotham has become, you could help me change that with just a little direction.”

The words are seductive. They slide in Jason’s ears and coil around his brainstem, binding him in place to hear the crime lord out. He gnaws on his bottom lip.

“What would—what would becoming your… _heir?_ What would that actually mean? For me?”

“Well, in the first place, it would mean you move in here. You’d have your own suite in this building, three meals a day, and food whenever else you feel like eating. It’d mean never wanting for anything again; clothes, money—hell you want another dog? We’ll get you a dog. You like books? You can have your own damn library. It’d mean respect – imagine everyone who ever spit in your direction, bending a knee instead.”

Jason releases his mangled lip, now bloodied once more. He shakes his head and peels his fingertips from the tabletop, studying the prints they leave behind on the glossy surface.

“ ‘s too good. What’s the catch?”

There’s _always_ a catch.

Black Mask’s voice softens to a level Jason thought would be impossible, “No catch, Jason. It’s a good deal. It won’t be easy though. You’ll have to go back to school. My heir won’t be some 6th grade drop-out. And you’ll have private lessons as well. I do a lot of business with foreign investors, so you’ll get a language tutor as well. Russian, Mandarin, and Spanish, I think. You’ll learn how to fight, how to shoot, how to—”

“I know how to fight,” Jason grumbles sullenly to cover the ecstasy whirling through his head at the possibilities.

Black Mask laughs.

“Oh son, I’m sure you do. But knowing how to throw a fist isn’t going to help if you get caught out when one of the bats shows up. You shouldn’t worry about seeing much of them though. You’ll be learning the accounts from Mr. Li and attending meetings and negotiations at my side before going out on the street for a good long while. How does that sound to you Jason? Does that sound a like a fair agreement? If it doesn’t,” Black Mask leans back lackadaisically, “that’s fine too. You can walk out of here tonight and keep running corners and picking up parking meter change. I won’t stop you. But I’m only going to make this offer once.”

Jason squeezes his eyes shut. He should say no. Things that sound too good to be true usually are. But something’s got to change? How long can he survive on the streets like this? Does he even want to? Is eking out another two or three years worth it if they’re all spent cold and hungry? He’s never wanted to become a criminal. Never wanted to be anything like his dad. The idea of embracing the life, feels like snuffing out the last guttering spark of his innocence. Not that he’s been living squeaky clean up to now – but this would be different.

If he takes Black Mask up on the offer though, he could use it to do some good. He could make sure the people who sold dirty drugs got punished. He could make sure the local shops that paid protection money weren’t getting fleeced. He could scare the pimps out of beating their girls. And Black Mask said he’d never want for money – he could pour whatever he got, back into the community. He’d have more opportunity as a criminal to do good then freezing to death virtuously behind an alley dumpster.

“I’ll do it,” he rasps. “I’ll—I’ll take it.”

He gets the bizarre impression that Black Mask is smiling beneath all that leather.

“I’ll make all of the arrangements immediately. On the condition, _that everything you just told me wasn’t a pack of lies from that pretty gutter-trash mouth of yours_ ,” Black Mask hisses, rising from the table. “Bring him in!” he shouts towards the entry.

Jason twists, jumping out of his seat when two men bust through the front doors, dragging a third between them. Black Mask saunters forward to meet the trio.

“Is this man your corner boss, Jason?” he asks.

Jason nods, wrapping his hands around the backrest of his chair until his knuckles turn white.

Black Mask tips his head at an angle, “Huh. You know, for a guy named Fat Tony, I thought there’d be more of you. But I guess Chubby Tony doesn’t really have the same ring to it. Now Tony—may I call you Tony? I’m not big on nicknames, they grate on my ears.”

Fat Tony looks almost as bad as Jason. He’s bleeding from the mouth and there’s a nasty contusion above his right eye. It gives Jason a vicious satisfaction knowing that for once the red spotting on Fat Tony’s wife-beater is his own. The man is standing mostly on his own power, but he lists to one side when one of his handlers briefly releases his arm to send a wave and a wink Jason’s way. It’s Box, the man who’d brought him in. Jason ticks two fingers back up in recognition. The movement finally brings Fat Tony’s attention to him and the man pulls against his captors, trying to peer around Black Mask at Jason. His expression switches from cowed and confused to spitting mad in an instant.

“What the fuck is he doing here? Huh? What’s this little shit been telling you?” he brays.

Even with Box and Reggie holding Fat Tony back, even with Black Mask standing between them, something small and young in Jason makes him shrink back, shoulders curling in defensively.

Fingers slipping helplessly on kitchen tile…

“Don’t concern yourself with him,” Black Mask barks, his displeasure at being overlooked clear. “When it’s his turn, he’ll be dealt with accordingly. You should be concerned with why _you’re_ here, in front of _me_.”

The venom in his voice corrals Fat Tony into taking a step back.

“Now, Tony. I’ve heard some rumors,” Black Mask laments, “Rumors that you’ve been cutting your product and skimming profits.”

“Is that—is that what that fucker’s been telling you? That I been—it’s bullshit! He’s a liar! And a thief! A useless walking cum-stain from a useless slag whore mother. You can’t believe anything that comes out of his mouth! He’s a—”

He’s not cut off with a gut jab or a suckerpunch, but humiliatingly with a slap that reverberates around the room. Black Mask’s open palm folds into a jutting finger.

“What did I tell you?! I told you not to concern yourself with him? Didn’t I? Didn’t I?” he roars and takes hold of Fat Tony’s jaw, forcing Fat Tony to look directly into the mask. “Now you have on chance to get this right. Have you been cutting your goods and pocketing the extra?”

Jason can see Fat Tony quivering from where he’s standing, the shine of tears at the corners of his eyes.

“No! No! It’s not true! If someone’s been mixing shit, it might be one of my guys, but—but I didn’t know. I don’t cheat. I’d never cheat you guys, I swear!”

“You swear?”

Fat Tony nods so hard his double-chin almost boogies off his neck. Black Mask takes a step back. He straightens the lapels of his suit jacket and smoothes out the wrinkles in Fat Tony’s shirt before patting him consolingly on the shoulder.

Seemingly he appeased he turns to Reggie and asks, “What did you find when you tested?”

“Tar was cut with baking soda. Bubbled right up. Tested three different samples,” Reggie answers apathetically.

“I didn’t know! I swear! Like I said, it must—it must be one of my guys!” Fat Tony pipes up desperately.

Black Mask ignores him, “Thank you Mr. Alvarez. And Mr. McDonough?”

Box digs around his jacket and pulls a dog-eared ledger from an inside pocket.

“I think I got em, Mr. Black Mask sir. But the place was a mess. Hard to tell what was what. I took a look, but I’m not real good with numbers,” Box apologizes.

“That’s fine, Mr. McDonough. Mr. Li will take those.”

Box tosses the booklet to the accountant. Mr. Li’s eyes skims left to right with preternatural speed. They wait in anxious silence as he compares the contents to a laptop sitting on the black granite-topped bar. Fat Tony stays blissfully silent for once, sweat dripping from his hair and face and soaking his collar. One dark eyebrow rises over the rim of Mr. Li’s glasses, lips tugging up at one corner. It’s the first real expression Jason thinks he’s seen on the man’s face. It’s not pleasant. He looks like a shark, one that smells blood in the water. A slight jerk of his chin calls Black Mask over. Li points to a page in the ledger, then to something on screen.

“A new car. A down-payment on a boat. Paid off the house in June, then signed a lease for an apartment in September. Ah. Jewelry as well. Mistress, then. I _nvesting in time shares—Really?_ As if embezzling wasn’t bad enough? You really don’t have any business sense do you Tony?”

“How did—How did you? I didn’t—I didn’t write that in there?”

“No you didn’t, but Mr. Li is very good at what he does and he’s been researching you all night. So. You cheat. You steal. And you lie about cheating and stealing. Thank you, Tony. You’ve been very helpful.”

“Thank… helpful?” Fat Tony echoes in bewilderment.

“Yes, thank you. You’ve helped vet Mr. Todd here. You’ve proven his trustworthiness. Jason, come here please,” he pivots on one Oxford heel and beckons Jason towards him.

Jason moves forward haltingly, in short jerky steps, not really wanting to get closer to either man. As soon as he’s in arm’s reach, Black Mask’s hand comes down on his shoulder. Jason clenches his fists so tightly they carve white crescent moons into the meat of his palms as he tries not to flinch noticeably. The hand on his shoulder squeezes in what Jason thinks Black Mask intends in a comradely manner. He wishes he would stop.

“Now, Jason. What do you think we should do with him?” Black Mask asks slanting into Jason’s personal space.

He can feel the zipper against his ear, catching on the cartilage shell.

“Do you think he should be punished? Or does he deserve a second chance? Is he the kind of man who, when faced with his own pathetic mortality, learns the error of his ways?”

Jason looks at Fat Tony. The man is a mess, face bruised, covered in blood, and now streaked with snot and tears.

“Kid—Jason, please. I took care of you, didn’t I? All these years. I know I wasn’t the nicest, but I paid you didn’t I? And I didn’t say nothing bout you nicking food from the restaurant when you came by. Ain’t that right? I’ll do—I’ll do anything. Please.”

If it was anyone else he might be moved. The crying, the blubbering… Jason’s not—he’s grown up hard, had to to survive, but he’s not cruel…

Fingers slipping helplessly on kitchen tile…

Jason turns away from him and looks directly into the mesh covered eyes of Black Mask. He can see something glitter behind their screens. He shakes his head.

“No. He's not the kind that learns. _Kill him_ ,” Jason commands, strong and steady.

“Good job, son.” He can _hear_ the grin in Black Mask’s voice. “Mr. Alvarez, you heard Mr. Todd. I want this man dead. Serious dead. Head on a pike, guts on the pavement, me wearing a sweater vest of his skin dead.”

Reggie nods and drags Fat Tony out of the penthouse. The doomed man kicks and screams, cursing Black Mask and Jason and God. His wails and pleas end with the polite chime of the hall elevator doors as they close. Jason stares at the space where Fat Tony used to be in shock. Black Mask is rather less affected by the night’s events.

“Mr. McDonough, if you’d show Mr. Todd to his new quarters, I think suite 1017 will suit just fine,” he instructs his thug breezily. “He could use a good night’s sleep. And then tomorrow we can look at getting that dog.”

“Aye boss.”

Box smiles and Jason steps forward to join him, giddiness bubbling up in his chest. He’s done it. _He’s done it._ He’s gotten off the streets, gotten rid of Fat Tony… He’s going to go to school again, and all the books he could ever dream of and—

A grip tightens around his bicep and Black Mask whispers in his ear before he goes, “By the way, _son._ You should know, not everyone is scared off by a few scars. I admire the sac it takes to do that to yourself though. You ever want anything, just _ask_.”


End file.
